When The Lights Are Out
by The Red Flag
Summary: Life changes when you're committed. Sephiroth/Genesis


**Summary:** Life changes when you're committed. Sephiroth/Genesis

Or, when you lose them, things will never be the same

 **When The Lights Are Out**

The back streets light up, smoky footpaths and the murmuring hubbub of late hour traffic. Day old coffee, lukewarm, black, keeping him up as the sky turns inky behind polluted clouds. High in the loft, tiled kitchen just cleaned Monday and the sound of the vacuum sneaking into his room still ringing in his ears. Shaving cream's out, he noted, taking another sip as he flits through the bathroom checking his hair. Two towels, two toothbrushes, one's a bit ratty. Should probably toss that out and bear with just the mouthwash for another day.

 _Minty Fresh! New alcohol free formula!_ Takes a swig, thorough rinse, waiting for that burn to get unbearable. Gargle. Spit. Wash that taste out with some water. Coffee tastes funny now.

8pm, news is on. Floods in Mideel and rain begins to patter on the window. Couch was soft, close the balcony doors and seal the windows. Laundry teetering in the basket. He should throw the load in before his ear gets chewed off. Pipe burst. That's right. Coins on the desk.

"Laundry day, sir?"

Idle elevator conversation. He hums in response. The cadet goes quiet and the rain worsens. How long does the dry cycle take?

Too long.

Parking violation plastered to his dashboard, sealed in plastic so the rain didn't eat the ink. That officer couldn't give two shits he gave _him_ one. Old laundromat had a poor conducting heater for a room full of lonely men in their 30s. Half-way in, he kept the wools in too long. Oh well, he threw the whites in with the colours. Lovely pink shirts.

He'll love 'em.

"That'll be 20 gil, mister." Bored, middle-aged, huge ugly earrings, bad shade of lipstick with a face like a squashed spud.

Not enough coins, "I only have a 50 on me."

She looks up from her glasses, scrutinising, "Well, aren't you doing well fer yerself in this economy."

Licks her fingers and counts the change.

He hates coins. And she gave him plenty. Pocket jangled. Hair wet. Rain pretty heavy. He fumbled with the keys, dove right in and the parking ticket rode on the passenger seat.

Should make warm coffee when he gets back. Soft jazz plays in the car as he keys the ignition and rides into late night traffic. Midgar was a hell hole. A black, lonely hell hole full of eyes that stared and hands that reached into pockets.

" _Have you ever had somebody who you loved so much, but no longer could? Ever felt like the whole world keeps on going, but you're stuck with your broken heart? Well, Patti Page knows that feeling all too well. Here she is singing your sorrows with her song, 'The End of the World.'"_

 _Why does the sun go on shining?  
And why does the sea rush to shore?  
Don't they know it's the end of the world?  
Cause you don't love me anymore._

A favourite. He turns the volume up and can almost hear his voice humming along to the lyrics. Light turns green, cars barely crawl through the city.

 _Why do the birds go on singing?  
Why do the stars glow above?  
Don't they know it's the end of the world?  
It ended when I lost my love. _

Sweet melancholy, almost artful with the rain. His mind drifted. Ring on his finger resting securely. He wanted a dog, the car had plenty of room for trips to the coast, so long as its nails didn't tear up the leather seats. A white husky. With amber eyes. Maybe not a puppy.

" _Well doesn't that sit nicely with today's weather. A bit of melancholy for your Friday night. Now for some public service announcement. For all you folk stuck in traffic, I'll bet this rain is giving your wipers a run for their money. Now, I'll let you in on some trade secret. Next you take your car for a service, ask your mechanic for Spiffgy's ultra weather-resist windshield wipers. Pioneer engineers have added some nano-technology to-"_

Radio flipped off. Traffic was clearing and he took the turn off the highway back home. Car parked. Number 60 glowing in the elevator. Sighing against the glass, rain dripping off his coat and through his hair. You never have an umbrella when you need one.

Ping. Doors open, hauling the laundry and flashing his key card for his front door. Warm apartment. Warm coffee.

"There you are."

Warm smile.

"I was wondering where you went."

Warm kiss. Soft lips.

"Oh look at you. You're drenched." He puts his mug of white coffee down on the table.

"Let me help."

Warm hands slip under his coat and takes it off.

Coffee pot full. Dinner, stir fry, on the table, peppers removed from his plate since he hates them. Supplemented with extra snow peas. Past five days a distant memory as he talks about his work in Mideel.

Lots of people lost their loved ones. War efforts overfunded and crisis efforts feeling pointless. That rain wasn't letting up.

"How's the stir fry? I added a bit more spice for you."

It's perfect. Plate cleared, cutlery clinking – a congratulatory gift from his parents, engraved silver they keep stored with silica gel to prevent tarnish. Sink bubbles, dishwasher wasn't broken, he fixed it just last week, but he had a philosophy about washing things by hand. Must have been one of those things he kept from growing up rural surrounded by apple trees and fleecy sheep.

He didn't mind. He still looked good from behind. Hugged him. Smile. Soapy rubber gloved finger pokes his forehead.

"Your hair's wet."

Kiss on the neck. He laughs. "Go have a shower."

He groans. Slinks away, one towel gone from the bathroom, toothbrush replaced, mouthwash put back where it belongs. He stands bare in the bathroom, turning the tap to boiling first just to get the cold rain out of his bones. Scorching, burns a little, but fills him with warmth that spans down to his toes. Adds some cold, washes his hair. There's so much of it, a trim might be in order before he gets himself tangled in it all.

He leans back, resting in the water. Paperwork was piling high on his desk, secretary was too rapt with her upcoming wedding to care about doing his job and keeping things organised for him. Angeal's throwing a party on Saturday, can't drink too much. Meeting on Sunday morning followed by a social at night. He'll ask him to iron his suit. Burned himself and set fire to the shirt last time. Laundry room still smells of charred cotton blend silk. Maybe he'll ask him to join him too, he liked socials

Cold air zapped his skin and lips pecked his jaw.

"You've been in here a while." Deep chuckle, twinkling eyes.

Water shuts off and a towel winds around his waist. Passionate kiss, holding him close. Mumbling against ivory skin, 'I love you', 'I missed you', 'I need you'. He reciprocates, willing, wanting, challenging with a smirk in his kisses. He stops him from touching red hair.

"I just blow dried." Huffed breath, brief kiss with a curl of tongues, "I'm not letting your wet limbs anywhere near it."

Walks away, heavy lidded, eyes full of impure promises. Tease. Trashy reality TV on in the bedroom, he shuts it out with the loud whirring of the hair dryer, not fussed with getting it perfect, just damp is fine. Enough to stop him from complaining about the bedsheets getting wet and needing to be replaced. It's a pain apparently, he offers to do it himself, but he gets chided because he does a poor job of it.

"You do the plumbing and all the electrical stuff. I'm in charge of the cooking and the cleaning. Got it?"

Ground rules. Don't break them. Relationships are fragile. He'll handle this one with care right to the grave.

Blow dryer off, unplugged, stored away. Fallen asleep with his show still on. Slides in under the covers next to him, turns off the lamp, the TV and closes his eyes.

It would make so much sense if he was still here.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry.


End file.
